


'til it breaks

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Aromantic Dean, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 15:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6015130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is perfect for Dean, really. But never, for the life of him, can he put a name to the ache in his chest whenever Castiel looks at him, <i>really</i> looks, with calm and love in his eyes, like Dean’s the only thing on earth that could fill the hole in his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'til it breaks

Castiel is perfect for Dean, really. Graduated in the top of their class in high school, got a full ride to KU on a track and field scholarship, turned away a chance to go to the Olympics to teach high school cross country. Sweet as hell. Attractive, sure, with the deepest cobalt blue eyes he’s ever seen and cheekbones that makeup artists across the country longed to feel under their fingertips. Tanned skin, smooth, sculpted muscle—Dean still has a hard time believing he didn't just walk out of an Abercrombie ad and fall into his life just to torture him. He’s felt those wide hands on his hips, those plush lips against his own, barely-there stubble soft when he rubs against Dean’s neck in the morning, when their bed is too warm and the outside world can wait.

But never, for the life of him, can he put a name to the ache in his chest whenever Castiel looks at him, _really_ looks, with calm and love in his eyes, like Dean’s the only thing on earth that could fill the hole in his heart. It leaves Dean gasping, reeling—not from reciprocation, but some sort of dawning, a feeling he can’t recognize. Something is missing. Something he can’t ever get back, something he can’t figure out.

That feeling always comes to a head mid-February, when every man in America is rushing to flower stores and malls and Wal-Mart, all looking for bouquets and chocolate and teddy bears. Sometimes all in one. “It’s a marketing campaign that only benefits Milton Hershey and his band of chocolatiers,” Dean had complained years before, when Castiel suggested they celebrate like every other couple in Midtown. Exchange presents, go out to dinner, get drinks, fuck one another into the mattress when it was all said and done. Which, had worked out for the first year.

Five years later, after Dean had graduated with his Master's in Paleontology and Castiel started working at one of the suburban high schools outside of the Perimeter, Dean still doesn’t understand why Castiel insists on wooing him with expensive jewelry and cupcakes and an ever growing assortment of stuffed cats. They sit on their bedroom windowsill looking out over their loft commons, at all the couples seated on benches and hipster teens walking to and from Little Five to make good on the Valentine’s Day deals. Dean just buries himself under the covers and waits for the sunlight to stop blinding him.

_Another Sunday_ , he tells himself, eyes closed.

Across their one-room apartment, Castiel mans the stove, the sound of bacon frying a nice accompaniment to his stomach, now growling endlessly. He barely ate last night, too keyed up on what Castiel was planning for today. It’s not the worst holiday of the year—Thanksgiving takes that spot—but it’s just another reminder of the ever growing ache, more persistent every year.

The bed dips at his side after a short while, the sheets stripped down far enough to reveal Dean’s face, now bathed in sunlight. “Put it back,” he whines and covers his eyes; winter mornings are the worst.

Castiel just chuckles and leans in to peck his cheek, Dean’s face flaming. They’ve known each other since they were in middle school; they’ve been _dating_ for the past seven years, and he _still_ can’t get over how giddy Castiel makes him feel with just a kiss. “Your eggs will get cold if you stay here,” Castiel whispers and kisses his temple, ear, enough to rouse him from feigning sleep. “I know you hate today, but I made you breakfast.”

“Heard that,” Dean murmurs and, shoving the covers aside, stretches, placing his hands on the concrete wall. Castiel kisses him again once his face is turned, soft and lush, enough to stir the beginnings of heat in his belly; he pulls away before Dean can get an arm around his neck, a smirk on his lips. “Gonna kill me one day,” Dean laughs, quiet, and pulls him in for one more kiss before he makes his way from bed in nothing but his boxers. Castiel makes an affronted noise; no one four stories below has ever noticed him in his underwear before, why start now?

They eat in companionable silence at their two-seater dining table, Dean curling his foot around the back of Castiel’s ankle, feeling the warmth beneath the hem of his pajama pants. Dean had abandoned trying to find clean pants and shrugged on the only shirt he could find; Saturday is normally their laundry day, but Castiel ran out of quarters, and there were only so many times they could check the tacky interior of Castiel’s Type 2 before they called it a day. He’ll have to break a twenty today, or else Castiel is going to school naked tomorrow and Dean will have to wear a spare uniform at the Museum of Natural History. Probably that one that only fits Kevin, when he’s in the state and not off in Montana.

“Never told me what you’re gonna do to me today,” Dean joshes, shoveling a forkful of gravy-covered biscuit into his mouth.

Castiel gives him a look and nudges his ankle in return, toes cold in the chill of the room. Even the space heater can’t warm the place half the time. “We haven’t been to the aquarium in a while,” Castiel offers, poking at his mostly-eaten bacon. “You haven’t said hi to Jasper in a while.”

Dean almost snorts his orange juice. Castiel still hasn’t let go of Dean’s obsession with one of the rockhopper penguins, simply because it just looks _mad_ all the time. “You’re just mad I didn’t name him after you,” Dean laughs.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You named him after Sam’s _dog_ ,” he grouses, and Dean shakes his head with a grin. “I bought tickets last week, along with a private dinner in the ballroom for an extra fee.”

Again—Castiel spent money on him _again_. And like all of the other times, he doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve how Castiel treats him, how Castiel loves him like he’s the greatest thing ever created. “You’re too good for me,” Dean says with his head in his hands, Castiel’s feet tucked between his own. Because it’s true—never in his life did he expect he’d end up dating and living with his childhood friend, and never did he expect them to actually stay _together_ for as long as they have, through birthdays and Christmases and beach trips and that one cruise to the Bahamas.

Still, he feels hollow, feels a constant itch for something that isn’t there.

“You’re perfect for me,” Castiel says and leans forward, presses their lips together in a soft kiss, promise dripping from his tongue. And really, Castiel is perfect for him, too.

 

Their dinner ends around nine that evening, a three-course meal under blue-lit lamps and accompanied by a four-part orchestra. Dean couldn't have afforded it in the first place; Castiel had explained that he saved a portion of his paycheck every month just to be able to get in the door, lamenting after it was over that it hadn’t felt like enough. Certainly, plowing Dean into the mattress half an hour later with the blinds half open made up for that, along with the leftover ice cream cake in the refrigerator that Castiel had neglected to mention he purchased until midway through dinner.

Really, Castiel is too good for him. Laying together that night, Dean watches the moon rise high into the sky, light streaking in between alleyways and treetops. _I love him_ , he thinks, casting his eyes to the rumpled sheets, at his hand flexing near his pillow. Castiel’s arm is draped over his waist, forehead pressed to his nape as he sleeps, soundless save for a few soft snores. _I love him, but not_ … He swallows against the realization and shrugs out of Castiel’s hold, soft enough to not jostle him awake. He needs to leave, just for a little while. Long enough to get his head on straight, to put a name to the ever-encompassing absence in his soul.

Piedmont Park is only four miles away, a distance he hasn’t walked in months, not since Castiel wanted to go to the arts festival and dragged Dean along. He drives the distance with no traffic, under the watchful light of the streetlamps, dulling the stars above him, lost somewhere in the pollution. City lights reflect off the Lake Clara Meer as he approaches, his Impala parked in the W’s parking deck a few hundred feet away. No one will break into her there, at least he hopes. Better than the vacant lot down the street with no attendant.

It’s not the safest place to be at night, but Dean goes anyway, walks across the crackling grass and stands in front of a wrought iron fence, gloved hands gripping the frigid metal, his breaths coming out in bright puffs. Middle of February and it’s freezing, cold to his Midwestern bones. He stands there for a long while, watching the lights blink on and off on the water’s surface, the planes that fly to and from the airport only a few miles away.

Quiet. Serene, blissful _quiet_.

Part of him isn’t surprised when someone joins him later, two trench coat-clad arms resting on the same fence, gloved fingers identical to his own twined together. “You weren’t in bed,” Castiel says, eyes to the skyscraper lights. “I found your note.”

Dean runs a hand through his hair, now static and sticking up in places. Not one of his best ideas. “I needed to think,” he whispers, breath steaming. Castiel watches him with patience; Dean turns away and wraps his arms around himself, around the jacket that does little to shield him from the winter. “You…” he starts, palms the back of his neck. “You know how I feel about you, right?”

Castiel nods, hesitant. “You don’t talk about it much,” he answers, hands in his coat pockets. “I figured you weren’t ready to say it yet.”

Which, fair enough. Dean hasn’t ever said those three words to Castiel, not in the long while they’ve been together. The closest he ever ventured was the afternoon Castiel cooked an entire turkey without setting the kitchen on fire. “It’s not just that,” he breathes.

From the look on Castiel’s face, it’s the wrong answer. Castiel’s eyes widen ever so slightly, lips parting in a frown. “You don’t love me,” Castiel sighs, almost despondent.

Dean never wants him to make that sound again. “Please—no,” Dean says in a rush and pulls Castiel into an embrace, Castiel gripping him back just as tight, face buried in his jacket. “I love you, but I can’t… You’re like a brother to me.”

Castiel coughs. “I’m… I assume you don’t mean—.”

“No, no, I’m not— _Jesus_ , not with Sam.” Dean pulls back and covers his face, embarrassment almost a living thing in his chest. “No, like… Look at me, Cas.” Extending his hands, he takes Castiel’s in his own, holding them tight. Light reflects off the budding wetness beneath Castiel’s eyes, and Dean kisses them closed, laps away his tears. “I love you, but I… I look at you, and I can’t see past this. I… You’re my best friend, Cas. You’ve been with me through all of this shit, you’ve been there when dad kicked me out, when mom married Bobby, when I thought my professors were gonna kill me. And I can’t…”

Dean isn’t one to run away from his problems. Isn’t one to tuck tail and backtrack, pull a lie and pretend everything was a horrible attempt at a joke gone awry. But now, he wishes he could run up the stairs and back to his car, just to escape the chasm growing between them. He tucks his face into the bend of Castiel’s neck and breathes, lets his scent wash over him, soothing. “I look at you every day, and you kiss me, and at night… I know I should feel _something_. Like… fireworks, or my chest caving in, or this _realization_ that holy shit, I _love_ you. But I... can’t.” He stops to cover his eyes, breath watery when he exhales.

“…And it hurts. Knowing I can’t give you that. ...That I can’t give you what you give me.”

He expects Castiel to leave him—cuss him out, leave him in the middle of the park and pack his things. He might be gone by morning, or maybe as soon as they get home, he doesn't know. Castiel does none of that, though, just crosses the gap between them and pulls Dean close, a hand cradling Dean’s head, the other clawing at his jacket. “You’ve given me enough,” Castiel whispers close to his ear. Sadness still haunts his tone, the very sound of it tearing Dean apart. “Whether you feel the same or not, my feelings won’t change.”

“You’re too good for me,” Dean repeats for the second time that day. He pulls Castiel as close as he can and sways under the moonlight, Castiel rocking with him in a motionless dance. “You put so much into me, and I can’t…”

“I don’t care about that,” Castiel assures him, barely audible. His breath is warm on Dean’s skin, his lips hot when he hides a kiss beneath Dean’s ear; Dean doesn't bother holding back a whimper. “I don’t care if you can’t feel the same for me, Dean. I don’t care if you never do. I just want you to stay.” Castiel is crying when he pulls back, eyes shining, wet. “Please. Please don’t leave me, I can’t…”

Dean grabs him before he can stop himself, nearly choking Castiel in the process. Castiel clutches him back like a lifeline, holds him until the weight in Dean’s chest eases, until Castiel’s presence lulls him quiet, the sound of scattered traffic from the highway their backdrop. “If anything changes,” Castiel asks after a while, his hand stroking down Dean’s back, “you’ll tell me. Right?”

Dean chuckles despite himself and nods, starting to sway. Castiel follows him, freeing one of Dean’s hands and taking it in his own, their covered fingers twining. “You’ll be the first,” he says. He pulls back to kiss Castiel, long enough to taste the tears that once fell down his cheeks, still wet. “Tell me.”

“Love you,” Castiel says, seals it with another kiss.

Dean rests their foreheads together and closes his eyes. “Love you too. Won't ever leave you.”

Another tear falls; Castiel smiles through it and kisses him again, cupping Dean’s cheeks. “Then that’s enough for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I'm aromantic. Hella. And because I can't ever write anything actually happy for Valentine's day because it's the day that forever stole the thunder from my birthday (it was yesterday, by the way,) I wrote angst. I wanted to do something that kinda encapsulated how I feel regarding relationships, and though I'm not the keenest on this interpretation of Dean's characterization, I feel like it came out well. Plus, it's fun to play with him every once in awhile.
> 
> Also, you should REALLY see [Piedmont Park at night.](http://farm1.static.flickr.com/32/95540852_43b68b486d.jpg)
> 
> Thanks to Cat, Liv and Stina for helping me figure out if I wanted to post this or not!
> 
> Title is from the Whiskey Gentry song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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